


cut and run

by sybilius



Series: count to ten and run for cover (B-sides) [1]
Category: Il buono il brutto il cattivo | The Good The Bad and The Ugly (1966)
Genre: (he does in fact do that), Abandonment Issues, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angel's Leather Gloves, Blondie's Dramatic Entrances, Blondie's...whatever, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Flirting in Spanish, Hand Jobs, Identity Issues, Languages, Motels, Multi, Oranges, POV Alternating, Polyamory Negotiations, Threesome - M/M/M, Trust, Tuco's Duluth Bag, get your head out of your ass man, good ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 10:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17979335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius
Summary: With blood drying on the diner walls as the road burns up behind them, each of the trio have their own reasons to slip away.(this story is about the reasons they don't)





	1. penknife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deepandlovelydark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepandlovelydark/gifts).
  * Inspired by [bleeding across state lines](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17738321) by [deepandlovelydark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepandlovelydark/pseuds/deepandlovelydark). 



> Anyways, the ending to bleeding across state lines fucking broke me (in the best way possible), so I wrote this as a nice little B-side. Satisfying both my desire for porn, and my desire for them to have an ending with nice things (perhaps that they don't deserve, but hey)
> 
> Diverges after the diner scene during the road trip from hell (if you're just in the tag right now, I promise this will make sense eventually)
> 
> (there may someday be a nice-things ending in the main canon thread, but for now, I can be contented with this au to the au :) )

Tuco would always call himself a hustler. Never a criminal.

Certainly not a killer.  

The smell of Blondie's blood hits his nose again, and he fights the urge to retch, trying to keep quiet as he can as the blood soaked diner vanishes in the distance behind them. On the dash mirror, a paper pine swings back and forth. There are foil wrappers crunching at his shifting feet. This isn't his car. This isn't any of theirs.

The black gloved hands on the wheel turn sharply, throwing Blondie into his side with a slight moan. Tuco's hands reach for him, squeeze his arm before he can push him away.  

“M'fine,” Blondie says levelly, and Tuco can't help but shove him, as if the mere reminder of their presence would remind the _assassin driving them away from the murder scene they were_ \--

 _Mierda_ , he needs a drink. The thought is like an old echo, how long has it been since that's crossed his mind.

The miles fly by. Over time Blondie’s body shifts closer to his, Tuco reaches in his Duluth for an old shirt, something to put pressure on Blondie’s leg. He grimaces at the thought of tearing up the pink-and-palm tree polo he’s a bit fond of, but he doesn’t much feel like making too much noise for their driver to suddenly decide he’s driving around a pair of useless hustlers who are easier to kill off than keep alive.

Tuco swears under his breath (in English), trying to tear the shirt. A moment later, something cool and heavy drops into his lap. Tuco stares.

Angel Eyes has thrown him his penknife. For a horrible half a moment, Tuco wonders if he means for him to kill Blondie with this -- but then he catches Angel’s glance in the rearview mirror, the sharp tilt of his head towards the shirt.

Oh.

Tuco tries not to think about this same knife, tracking down his chest a few nights before. Tries, and fails, but holding it makes him feel a tiny bit better. Blondie takes the strip of shirt without asking, cinches it and ties the knot himself with a grim satisfaction.

The car is slowing down.

“Stay put.” Angel Eyes’ voice still sounds the same. Tuco isn't sure why he expected any different.

He waits till the door has slammed before even moving, peeking out the car window. Alleyway, old brick, scrawled graffiti. Some kind of nowhere town in broad daylight. He slides lower in the car, wondering if the law is already on their tail.

“Fucking hell, Blondie, what were you thinking?”

“C'mon, we should go.” Blondie squints out the window, the sun high on his pale cheeks.

“Didn't Angel Eyes say to stay here?”

“Angel Eyes killed four men in front of us. Tuco, come on,” Blondie tugs on his arm, and Tuco can see the pain from his leg flit across his face.

“Because they had you, and you were hurt,” _Jesús, María y José,_ why is he rationalizing this? How?

(The answer to that one is easy, seeing Blondie all trussed up like that, getting kicked by those pigs, he could almost say he was grateful)

The image of the blood on the tile floor rears up in his throat, and he does retch then, though thankfully manages to keep his meal down. God knows when he'll get another.

“Jesus, why the hell do I take you anywhere?” Blondie opens the car door, looking left and right.

“You didn't take me,” Tuco is surprised that he says it out loud. Not surprised that Blondie doesn't seem to notice.

“Could grab that van over there--”

“Blondie, what the hell were you doing with Angel, how the hell did you get shot?”

“Later, Tuco--”

“You tell me _now_ , Blondie, or I'm not going anywhere.”

That’s another thing that surprises him -- maybe it’s the weight of the knife in his pocket, that the killer who is coming back for them isn’t going to stab them in the back. Maybe he’s just tired of feeling like the one who doesn’t know shit about their little games, the hitman who'd never lied and the street cowboy who can string him along like a gold digger--

“You sure picked a fuck of a time to be stubborn, stay here then,” Blondie tries to stand and half stumbles against the side of the car. That's enough of his blood on the floor, even for him.

“Just tell me what you told him, eh? Then I'll help you out of here, we can go together?”

“Forget it,” Blondie braces himself to stand again. He makes it a few steps before a screech of tires causes him to stop in his tracks. Angel Eyes, in one of those tiny blue GM Vegas that you can find on any street corner (and which Tuco suspects he likely did).

“Get in,” Angel jerks his head, not commenting on Blondie's attempt at escape. Tuco catches the way his eyes flicker to Blondie's wounded leg, and he shoulders his Duluth before slipping his arm under Blondie.

Blondie glowers, but doesn't protest. It takes a bit of fumbling to get them both into the back seat. No chance of sneaking out the doors while he’s driving this time. They’ll have to wait it out. Tuco slips his hand on the knife. The idea that he could take Angel in a knife fight seems patently insane-- but still, it’s on him and close by, unlike the handgun in the Duluth he’s not even sure he could shoot.

(He’s not even sure he could shoot anyone, but god above, he might have to).

“That was three minutes,” Angel says, after they've put a few miles between them and the town. Blondie scoffs, and Tuco realizes what he’s referring to a moment later.

“Almost as good as you can do, eh, Blondie--” Blondie doesn’t _enjoy_ using his talent for hot-wiring cars, but he does take a sort of savage pride in reminding Tuco he can do it in just under three minutes.

“Should never have taught you how.”

“Well. You’ve demonstrated that you’re not useless at all facets of the job. Not least of all the lying,” Angel’s voice was light, as if it didn’t mean shit to him. Tuco isn’t entirely sure why he believes otherwise. It’s a good dig though, gets to Blondie in the way he reaches for a cigarillo to hide behind.

Then it hits him again, everything feeling at such a _normal_ rhythm and four men are dead in their wake. And he has no idea why.

“What story did he tell you, Angel Eyes?”

(If he’s going to get killed for it, he’s going to hear it _before_ , and not after. Blondie just gazes out the window, indifferent).

“Two lies, to one truth, I wager. That before you were partners in this cockamamie poker scheme, he’d hunted men alone. That he missed it. Oh, he told a lot of stories about the marks he’d had, most of which sounded too close to the movies for me to want to believe him,” Angel Eyes’ lips were white in the mirror, his eyes shaded, “But the one thing that _sounded_ like it could be true was that you’d had a price on your head and Blondie went out to collect it. Said he couldn’t do it, given your history, and then got stuck keeping your head out of trouble.”

“Tch. Tuco couldn’t commit a crime big enough to collect a price on him,” Blondie murmured. maybe to others, hell, maybe to Angel it sounded disparaging. Tuco knows enough to hear the odd ring of admiration beneath it.

“And you figured you could, did you? Next time you want to play at something, better stick to your theatre. I would have preferred not to have killed those men.”

“So? They treated me like shit and beating up a man for helping another. Lawman should do better. They deserved it.”

Angel laughs strange, “There isn’t a damn person in this world who doesn’t deserve it for something, Blondie.”

That shuts him up, in a funny way, and leaves Tuco thinking, too. About the things they’ve done -- Blondie isn’t wrong. There’s nothing anyone would pay to see him dead, but there’s been a few things he isn’t the least proud of.

Leaving Pablo without saying goodbye, for certain. But he'd needed that one, needed the empty open road that tracked beside them as they drove on. The hustle didn't bother him any, in a way the word _deserve_ felt like it was written in the flip of the cards. No, but there had been the time he'd been so hard up to get a meal in a town where people would spit on him simply for existing next to the dirt on the ground. A trailer on the outskirts of town left unlocked, a few half-empty bags of trail mix and cans of beans shoved into his Duluth before anyone could catch him out. Some things worth taking.

Some things he couldn’t use. A box of diapers on the shelf, running low. The faded wooden telephone on wheels he’d almost tripped over, that almost made him turn around when every inch of his near-starving body was screaming for him not to. He didn’t turn around.

He won't ever earn a price for that, sure. But there was a cost.

They drive till evening mainly in silence, which is rare for Tuco. Mostly the fear is still holding his tongue where it is. At one point he slips out a cigarette, quietly as he can, fiddling with his near empty lighter.

Despite his fear, it does cheer him up when Blondie wordlessly passes his.

At sunset Angel pulls in to a middle of nowhere Motel 6, just as anonymous as the one they'd stayed at a few states over. Tuco bites at the inside of his cheek. The similarity-- it's better, it's worse.

The motel room still has the same cluttered sense of space, the bed with the same grey-and-yellow pastel flower duvet. The bathroom is a little bigger, but the whole thing leaves Tuco with a hollowness in his chest remembering how a place like this felt before.

Tuco realizes when Blondie half collapses to a seat on the bed that he should have helped him limp in. Not that Blondie would have accepted it.

But just like it doesn't take a second thought, Angel kneels to untie the poor dressings, take a look at it. Blondie slaps his hand away, his reflexes slow from the pain.

“Don't be an idiot. It's going to get infected if you don't clean it.”

“I'll handle it.”

“Handle it like you did back there? Please. I've got no damn reason to trust you with anything right now.”

“And why the hell would I trust you not to kill me outright?”

That’s a stupid question and even Tuco knows it. But Blondie has that hunted look in his eye, the delusion of clinging to pride when they have shit all and they both know it. Tuco had almost forgotten, the way that look settles on his shoulders, that it’s his turn to take the weight of keeping them alive on his shoulders.

“Because if I wanted you dead, Blondie, that would be much easier --” Angel's voice is liquid calm, so why can Tuco see his hands shaking? Then quick as a viper, a black glove squeezes his thigh, and Blondie doubles over with a sharp breath, “Case in point--”

“You sonofabitch--” Blondie grits his teeth and Angel digs his fingers in, all the tendons in Blondie's neck straining against the pain--

“Hey.”

Tuco's voice is far calmer than he thought it would be. Enough for both of them to turn to him, as if they'd forgotten he existed. The bastards probably had, and he's missed his chance to get off of this crazy train. He sucks in a breath.

“Leave him, Angel, walk it off. He'll be okay,” Tuco has no idea what in God's name makes him think Angel would take orders from him.

But he does, is the thing. Steps away and Tuco kneels like it's something they'd agreed on, goes to work untying the bindings. Blondie's poker face doesn't shift, but Tuco can read his surprise in the tilt of his head and shoulders.

He doesn't look behind him as he unwraps the wound, but he can _feel_ Angel's gaze crawling down his neck. The hole is bloody, but not too big (is that big?). Tuco fights nausea for the third time that day, pours out a bit of water to clean the edges. It has stopped bleeding, for the most part.

“That's good,” Angel says faintly behind him, “I’ve had at least two like that in me.”

“Should we-- try to get it out?” for all they'd been in a lot of bar fights, neither of them had ever come out with a bullet in them.

“No, no that's the worst thing you could do,” Angel said distantly. Tuco got out the flask of whiskey he had at the bottom of the Duluth, signing the cross instinctively before pouring it on. Blondie, to his credit, barely reacts to that one, just draws his lips tighter and watches Tuco tear off another strip to bind it.

In his concentration, Tuco almost misses Angel's movement towards the bathroom. Can't miss the door slam, though. He's halfway to turning back when his partner grabs him by the cheek and kisses him, dragging his stubble along Tuco’s teeth, so he can taste the sharp exhale of breath when his leg moves.

“ _Mierda_ , what am I going to do with you,” he's too damn tired not to let that one slip, and he's almost surprised to see Blondie react, just a pinch at his eyebrows. Huh. He’d always expected the Spanish wouldn’t mean shit to him.

“We should-- “ Blondie glances to the door, but it's half hearted. They both know they'd never make it with him like this. Tuco isn't sure Blondie even wants to.

“Why'd you do it Blondie? If you knew he-- “ Tuco breaks off, suddenly conscious of how easy it was to believe Angel had been lying, despite all the signs otherwise. Something he’d hoped was a hustle, though he knew it wouldn’t make sense for it to be one.

“I didn’t think he’d kill for me.”

“You wondered. Hell, Blondie, if you knew this-- you must have known…” Tuco’s voice trails off, seeing a rare glimmer of uncertainty in his partner’s ice-blue eyes. _Tonto del culo_ , he can’t stay angry. He squeezes Blondie’s leg, “Stay here, alright? I’m going to go check on him.”

“What?”

Blondie’s whisper may be soft, but his disbelief is as loud as his voice ever gets. Tuco doesn't blame him, but --

“Come on, he's already taking it worse than you. Just rest a minute. I'll be right back.”

Despite his bravado, it still takes him two tries to get the courage to knock.

  
  
  



	2. cigarette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Angel Eyes' perspective.

Haven't I always known, should have known,  _ pars maior lacrimas ridet et intus habet _ , that it's the lies we want to believe that are the easiest to tell? 

The bathtub drips a strange and torturous rhythm. I pace back and forth against the discolored tile, my glance flitting to the tiny window. From the whispers in the other room, they aren’t listening too closely. It would be possible to vanish, with little effort. 

But why the effort, when it would be twice as simple to just walk out the door, nothing either of them could fathomably do to stop me?

Blondie, I know, wouldn't even try. 

A soft knock to the door makes me instinctively reach for the Remington underneath my jacket. 

“It's unlocked.” 

“Can I--” Tuco doesn't finish the question, the brass knob turning open to reveal his earthen brown eyes. So easy to read fear, yet underlying concern in him. I glance behind him, against my better instincts wondering if Blondie has settled. He shuts the door carefully.

“You... okay?”

Blondie, I couldn't answer that question to. Blondie wouldn't have asked.

It's a question he's skeptical about having to ask, ask the murderer who would have done it ten times over without a thought, _ dare il diavolo ciò che gli spetta fe meglio,  _ ask the devil you know, why don't you, and he'd believed all this time that I couldn't possibly have been telling him the truth. He wanted to believe that. 

I'd wanted to believe so many things. Thought I'd given that up years ago. 

I shake my head once. No change in expression. He exhales, jamming his hands in the pockets of those godawful yellow pants. 

“ _ Ya sabes, creo que sé el sentimiento _ .” he tries. 

I pause, the transgression thick in the air. By now it's clear that the only damn thing Blondie speaks with a confidence is English, despite his passing knowledge of a few Latin phrases. 

“Do you?” Difficult not to be sharp-- I don't want a question. 

“We-ell, I've never killed for someone, no. But there was this one time, we were both hungry for a few days, and on account of that blonde, I--” 

“Stop,” I say it so quietly, but the effect on him is immediate. No, I suspect no one's ever been able to silence him with a word before now. 

The bathtub drips into the silence. Despite the cool air, I can see sweat beading on his brow. 

_ Bis interimitur qui suis armis perit _ , it never ceases to amaze me how simple fear is to wield. A tool, to work with, controlled detonations meant to weaken, to confuse. 

I never had the hands for defusing explosives. 

“It's -- what I mean is. It's enough that this has already happened. Never mind that he's done it before,” that isn't what I mean, I can't  _ find  _ what I mean, but Tuco still hasn’t moved an inch, is watching me with wide eyes and hands that twitch towards his pocket. I shake my head, sit down hard on the side of the dripping bathtub. 

“Never mind that. He's alright?” I have to ask that, in spite of everything, because of everything. As much as I don't want to. 

Tuco sits down on my other side. That’s surprising. He does nod though, slow and sure. I breathe out. 

“Tuco. I just meant-- you can talk. Hell, talk.  _ Te ves muerto de miedo _ .”

He coughs out a laugh then, and that's surprising enough.  “Course I am. But. No more than I was when you were just a rich man making eyes are my partner. Maybe a little more, but a little less, too.” 

I could tell him that Blondie never was; not when I'd told him and he'd scoffed and said that was damn near impossible to imagine. Not when that Czech assassin had made it through the gates with almost too-quiet precision, not when I’d cut his throat in front of Blondie, blood staining the white stones on the back terrace. 

He didn't even flinch, just said it was easier to picture than he'd thought. 

This, after we'd fucked before even considering how to dispose of the body. 

Small wonder I believed him. 

There's a subtle movement beside me-- Tuco, rummaging in his pockets. He still has my knife, and I can see that flit across his forehead. But what he fishes out is much more pedestrian, cigarettes, a lighter that clicks too many times before finally letting out a flame. He takes the drag quickly, stealing a glance back to the peeling paint on the door. 

And then, with a shaking hand-- he offers it. The bathtub drips. I put it to my lips. 

“Guess that makes the gloves thing make sense, doesn't it,” Tuco half-flinches through the moment, but bridges the distance, patting my left hand just once. 

It's almost a laugh I manage then, just a short, sharp exhale out with the smoke. Here we are. Again, perhaps. And there he is-- but not so close, not here. 

I pass back the cigarette, then something comes to me. I tug off the right glove, take his wrist carefully, so he can watch the movement. His veins are threaded with hard, practical strength. Years of having to fend for himself, perhaps for Blondie as well. Under my index his wrist is thrumming, the cadence frantic as a trapped moth. 

That's the thing about this man, from the moment I've met him he's been nothing if not completely, wholly alive, swallowing life in the breathless gulps it was meant to be taken in. 

I bring his wrist to my lips, just briefly. Then let it down. 

He exhales hard, half-laughing, “ _ Qué cabrón _ .” 

Then moves so quickly it almost takes me by surprise; kisses exactly like that, like his next breath is sucked right from my mouth, tasting of the orange he’d peeled in the car hours before,  _ llámalo amor, llámalo néctar, _ which makes about as much sense as loving Blondie ever did. 

He pushes forward, his muscle throwing me off balance, my arm catches the faucet, and suddenly we're caught in a too-cold, then all too warm rain, his confused shout quickly melting to laughter next to my mouth. 

“ _ Mierda _ ,” he pushes the shower faucet off, brushing the water from my cheek, “Sorry about your jacket.”

I half-shrug it off, revealing the gun strapped to my back, and Tuco gapes for a half a moment, while I’m taking it off, then almost grins when I kiss the shock from his lips. 

“You’re crazy, you know that?”

Perhaps he’s right, but it’s a madness he’s steeped in, and I’ll be damned if that isn’t what I want right now. 

“This from the man who’s kissing a killer?” I can feel the way that goes straight to his cock. So we can work with his little lawbreaker kink, at least until the fear of fucking a murderer wears off. 

Not sure why I hope it might. 

But while I can--  I slip the penknife out of his pocket, let my hand brush his hardness carefully. Yes, that I can work with. I toss it next to my Remington, lying on the floor. At the heavy drop of it there’s a sound by the door. Which rests a crack open. Damn it all to  _ hell _ . 

“Well. Don’t stop on my account,” Blondie pushes the door open slowly, and all  _ hell _ if I wish my gun wasn’t a half a foot away on the ground.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language translations:
> 
>  _pars maior lacrimas ridet et intus habet_ \- You smile at your tears but hold them in your heart. Latin.
> 
>  _dare il diavolo ciò che gli spetta fe meglio_ \- Literally, "bad behavior soils more than dirt", colloquially meaning "Give the devil his due". Italian.
> 
>  _Ya sabes, creo que sé el sentimiento._ \- You know, I think I know the feeling. Spanish (this porn is unbeta'd because I generally balk at having people beta my PWP, but if there are suggestions for how to make this more colloquial I will take them in DM :) ) 
> 
> _Bis interimitur qui suis armis perit_ \- He is doubly destroyed who perishes by his own hand. Latin. 
> 
> _Te ves muerto de miedo_ \- You look scared stiff. Spanish. 
> 
> _Qué cabrón_ \- What a bastard, colloquial. Spanish.
> 
>  _llámalo amor, llámalo néctar_ \- Call it love, call it nectar. Spanish. This isn't a quote from anything, it just seemed like something Angel would think. 
> 
> Comments always welcome!


	3. handgun (hands, eyes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is from Blondie's perspective.
> 
> Tbh Blondie has a hell of an internal monologue. 
> 
> This chapter is the racy one.

_Listen: if you were a better person you'd have already left._

_Picture this._

The two men tangled up in a half-dripping mess in the motel bathtub. There's a gun and a knife tossed carelessly to the floor. The man on the bottom with the sharp cheekbones letting his eyes wander back to the weapons without moving, grace and violence written in the tension of his bare fingers on the side of the tub. The man on top, Mexican sun-touched skin, shakes off his dark brown curls slightly before responding.

“Y-- you want us to keep going, Blondie?”

_You have to nod, light a cigarette. One hand still clutching the Python behind your back, and keep it out of the killer's sights. No need for him to know you've misjudged your partner's shout._

_They're going to perform--_

“Okay, then -- Angel, is that--”

“Just. Shut up and fuck me, Tuco.”

“That's not a yes.”

“Yes. I want you to,” Angel Eyes’ voice is clipped, certain.

_You shift your pose, your grip on the gun loosening._

Tuco and Angel Eyes both tug themselves upwards, rearranging their tangled limbs. Tuco glances back once before frowning carefully at Angel’s flint-eyed lust.

“As long as you can say that,” Tuco begins working open the buttons on Angel's shirt, the sound of the zip almost pornographic. Angel's half-moan when Tuco gets his mouth on him certainly is.

_You tilt your head consideringly, taking a long drag. The scene is meant to go straight to your dick-- nothing wrong with letting it. Weapons are on the floor, you're holding all the cards._

Tuco is at his best when he's using himself like this, Angel's leg thrown over the side of the tub, Tuco's eyes hooded and careful. Watching the way his tongue makes Angel respond, relax the muscles in his neck deliberately to take him down the throat.

_Is this the way he looks, when your eyes are closed and he's holding the rope? That's a good scene too, almost as good as this--_

_\-- so maybe it's better that you stayed, after all, where would they be without the audience._

_Where would you be?_

Tuco's bare spine shivers, Angel has managed to get those unimaginably soft hands through his hair, down to his neck. He doesn't press on his throat; no, just brushes his hair away and Tuco looks up from his work and grins.

“ _Usted sabe bien._ ”

_You can't let that one show on your face. But what has he said, the pig, why when he knows you can hear it -- because you can hear--?_

_Bastard. You’re already hard -- thinking about the noose around your neck. Too late to shoot it down now._

Tuco’s neck is a stunning contrast to Angel’s blue-veined fingers, muscle and bone a pleasant highlight in the film reel of flesh. Angel _kisses_ as precise as the knots he ties, and Tuco’s flash of a smile is almost heartbreaking.

_When is the last time he smiled that way for you?_

_It was a few hours ago, wasn't it. A few hours ago when you'd lent him your lighter in the back of that tiny car, and you thought, god, at least he's easy to distract._

“ _Cuéntame sobre eso - en inglés_ ,” the cadence of Angel's voice is just slightly different in Spanish, rumbling and nuanced.

“You wanna know how you look now? Like someone desperate for a fuck, like a beautiful mess. The water looks good on your cheeks, you know?” Tuco tracks his lips down the dusty hair on Angel's chest, bites at his nipple with an endearing mischief. He always was difficult to shut up during sex, “Yeah, that's good. Thing about you, Angel, is you look like you could kill, that much I'll give you. But that just made me want to do this more.”

He takes Angel’s dick in his whole hand then, kissing him rough and needy like he always does. It’s sloppy, the image damn mismatched and _strange_. Angel’s face is so unguarded, his eyes wide and pupils blown, and Tuco is following his rhythm with his every move.

“ _Enno dannati i peccator carnali, che la ragion sommettono al talento_ _._ ”

_You almost understand that one. He's said it to you once before, and remembering the way his stomach trembled when he did only gets you harder. You reach for your belt, play it up slow._

_No one sees._

“ _No tengo idea de lo que estás hablando_ , but the fact that you can still speak is no damn good,” Tuco tugs on Angel's pants, tucking Angel's legs on his shoulders after he's finally pulled them off. He keeps the lube easy to reach, near the top of that canoe bag he's always hauling around.

_Not that you've ever taken it out yourself. Not that he'd let you._

_No, you're witnessing exactly what you'd expected; the scene you've set, the scene you should have left before --_

“Wait. Blondie,” Angel Eyes straightens, jerking his head, “I'd prefer not fucking at gunpoint. This time.”

Tuco’s shock and confusion is as familiar as his smile, when the weapon comes out. Angel just inclines his head, the old narrowing in his eyes a reminder.

_He knows you have a gun, of course he knows. The murderer you go to bed with, and the partner you've saved more times than you can count._

“Mhm.”

_You drop it on the floor, next to the knife and the Remington._

“Thank you.”

_Hide that behind the cigarillo._

_You can't remember if Angel Eyes has ever thanked you before. Not that you let the question show on your face._

Tuco pulls out an old, dirty rope from the side of the bag, “Hey, Blondie, did you want to-- “

_Your face makes Tuco's words die in his throat. As it should._

Tuco half shrugs, spreading the lube on his fingers, slipping a finger experimentally into Angel's ass. It takes him a moment, before Angel gasps with pleasure, but then, he always had fast fingers. From there the rhythm is so seamless it could have been choreographed, Tuco’s fist working its way in. Angel's heady breaths building up while Tuco mutters in tongues, watching, waiting for Angel to give the word.

_You never thought about when he does that, waits for you to call the shots, set the scene._

“Come on, Tuco, do it,” Angel growls, and Tuco nods, spreading Angel's legs wider to push his length in at last. Angel's eyes widen and his lips part; he’s beautiful in surprise, always has been. And Tuco, head tilted and hungry, always hungry for more pleasure, more _life_.

_Come on. You know you couldn’t give him that, the best thing you could give him is the man he’s got._

_All you’re wishing for is the rope, now. That’s all that’s ever gotten you going, might as well be what you deserve_.

The slap and grunts against the silence are deafening, it's difficult to look at now, so raw and animal, nothing familiar--

_\-- all of it you know ---_

Angel Eyes’ neck strains, fingers digging red marks into Tuco's back as he comes in spurts across his chest, gasping for breath.

_Your hand twitching towards the door. Is that what they want?_

_Just go._

Tuco pulls himself up carefully, leaving Angel to breathe against the tap still dripping on his chest. He approaches slowly, hands still shaky, half a smile on his lips.

“Hey. Blondie.”

Tuco's hand registers on Blondie's face. Blondie blinks. Then his partner kisses him; just like the hundreds of times stolen by the roadside before, just like in the mornings; the moments where he's too sleep-fucked to push him away; just like a stolen minute bleeding out on a hotel bed.

_But you're alive._

Blondie kisses back, tasting salt and sweat and everything so familiar he could collapse from it. Tuco shivers when their bodies get close, he hasn't come yet. Blondie's hand is on his dick before he manages to think about it, squeezes tight just to see the pleasure make his brown eyes spark. It's so easy.

_I've got you._

Tuco gasps, comes in his hand. Sticky and messy, and in spite of how the image of Tuco with come stuck to his face goes straight to Blondie's dick, he shakes off his fingertips, licks them to see the shock color Tuco's spent gaze.

He tastes sweet, of course.

_Don't know why you expected otherwise._

“Blondie.”

_Oh god. The killer who says your name like a prayer, how is it you've put so many miles behind you, cut yourself from so many cloths, and still there's a story that makes no goddamn sense here._

_Who the hell are you, next to him?_

Blondie lets Tuco steady himself before he approaches Angel, eyes flickering to the old rope in his hands. The rope drops loosely around his neck, Angel's hands pulling them eye to eye.

“Don't ever fucking do that again,” Angel kisses like torture, everything Blondie can never have nor be.

_You can't make any promises like that, not the way you fucked that one up._

“I was so afraid, damn you.”

Blondie's thoughts skip over Angel's words as the rope tightens around his neck. The zip of his own jeans sharp, Angel's soft hands touching him, fucking finally--

_You feel it so hard it fucking hurts--_

And then it's nothing again, just animal breathing and a pair of arms holding him steady. He sways-- all of him does hurt, as the pleasure fades out of his nerve endings. But mostly his leg. He's dimly aware he should move, that he's resting most of his weight on Angel's shoulder right now. But Angel smells like blood and sweet earth and road sweat, and that's all that's holding him in his skin right now.

“What the hell do you mean-- you were afraid--” it comes out both sharper and softer than Blondie means it to, his breathing still ragged. Angel shakes his head, settling his hand on the side of Blondie's neck.

“Not used to people I love getting themselves hurt like that. Not especially because they lied to me.”

“Oh.”

_Scoff, you tell him he should have expected this from a hustler--_

Blondie says nothing, not then, nor when Tuco tugs on his arm and walks him to the bed. The hollowness in the silence has crawled into his bones, along with all the reasons he has to be fucking exhausted. That night, Tuco claims the middle, dropping to sleep between them as if he'd always been there.

_Well. You were getting too damn overheated every night as it was._

When Blondie wakes, uncharacteristically before Tuco, Angel's bedside is already empty, the light from the bathroom filtering in to the sunlit room. He pushes himself up, ignoring his morning wood for once. With rest, all of yesterday is flickering like a film reel on the back of his mind, and none of it in coherent order.

_You can walk on that leg, though. It doesn't hurt that bad._

Angel is on his hands and knees in the bathroom, leather gloves on. He's produced a rag and some kind of cleaner and is scrubbing the outside of the bathtub, which looks pristine. He glances upwards, only gesturing once with his glove. Rubbing off the prints.

“Good idea,” and then, as an afterthought, “Thanks.”

“It's not for your sake. God knows they have yours.”

“Still.”

Angel seems to hear that, though, gets up to study Blondie carefully. There's something different about how he's looking, slow and considering. Like he's figured something out about him. Blondie fights the urge to look away.

_You can ask that much, though. This time._

“So. Where are we going to go?”

Angel's brow knits together once, and it's worth it, breaking character to see the confusion replaced by a ghost of a smile.

“I have an idea. Let's see what Tuco thinks.”

That surprises Blondie in turn, but he inclines his head, nodding once before reaching for his lighter.

_You may not know shit about what happens next, but a cigarillo can't hurt._

He sits heavily on the side of the bed, watching Angel touches Tuco’s shoulder gently, his partner’s bleary squint at the morning sunlight. It’s at a distance that it’s easier to see it for what it is; saccharine as any exchange between lovers in the films that Blondie pretends to loathe. Blondie almost fumbles the cigarillo, at the way Angel’s lips turn up when he meets Blondie's gaze.

“God, is Blondie even up before me? How late is it?” Tuco scrunches his hands into his eyes and stretches, “You bastards wear me out, you know?”

The smile stays on Angel’s face, “It’s still early. We should go, but -- soon.”

Tuco tenses, “Are the police--”

“No, no, relax. If I'm honest, we're in relatively little danger right now. Over time, the case will pass to those higher up, who will recognize the style in question-- and it will fall to a cold case,” Angel Eyes grimaces before continuing, “However, what little interest local law enforcement will take is going to be focused on Tuco. Which might put a damper on if you wanted to return to playing at poker fraud, at least for the next few months.”

“So, where’s it gonna be safe for him?” Blondie leans forward before reminding himself not to.

_Is the intensity in the question such a surprise to you? How long have you spent, trying to keep your partner safe? Years._

Blondie rubs a hand ruefully over his stubble. But Angel seems to know what to say.

“I was thinking we could go where he'll blend in. I hid out a few times in Mexico when I was a younger man. Got some idea of where to cross the border. That sound workable?”

From the grin that splits Tuco’s face like the sunrise, it’s gonna more than work.

_So that’s the horizon you’re heading for next. Sounds like an ending._

_Sounds like it could be a beginning._

But in either case, it paints a hell of a picture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language translations, which are funny to me because Blondie thinks they're so serious and yet...
> 
>  _Usted sabe bien_ \- You taste good. Spanish.
> 
>  _Cuéntame sobre eso - en inglés,_ \- Tell me about it -- in English. Spanish.
> 
>  _Enno dannati i peccator carnali, che la ragion sommettono al talento._ \- And I was told about this torture, that it was the Hell of carnal sins when reasons give way to desire. Dante, Inferno Canto V, 33. Italian. Yes, it's very extra, this is my fanfiction and I will make my characters Like That if I want to ;) 
> 
> _No tengo idea de lo que estás hablando_ \-- I have no idea what you just said. Spanish. (yes I will also drag myself in my own fic)
> 
> Anyways this was a lot of fun, happy-ish ending, everyone gets the sex they should have and gets to be held a little. I like that :) 
> 
> Comments very welcome, now go read the rest of main canon ;)


End file.
